Most days Shepard just sat in the rocking chair and stared at the wall. He would rock sometimes, but mostly he was still. He'd lost his leg in the explosion. The doctor told Steve that he'd been lucky they found him early enough to amputate and fit him with a bionic prosthetic capable of reacting to his brain waves. They said he'd have full functionality and be able to walk perfectly fine, but Shepard still chose to limp with a cane.

Most nights Shepard just laid in bed and cried. Sometimes he would let Steve try to comfort him, but most nights he yelled if he touched him, almost as if his skin was burning. The great Commander Shepard would plead for him to stop and leave the room so he didn't have to see him like this.

Most times Steve left him alone. He climbed out of bed and slept on the couch, but some nights he stood in the doorway instead, with his head on the doorframe, and found that he was too tired to cry. He would watch Shepard, eyes heavy with sleep, as he screamed and moaned and thrashed in agony and remorse. The name of every friend who had died, the pleas for forgiveness and mercy never left his lips.

Steve never knew who Shepard was talking to anymore. When he'd wake up wailing he would scream words through his choked sobs, usually they made sense. It was obvious that he was having a conversation, but he never knew with whom.

Steve worried, of course. He always worried, but he never worried as much as he did after the night Shepard had actually held him in bed during one of his fits. Shepard gripped his arms with tears in his eyes, his lover's face inches from his, and begged Steve to kill him.

'Do it, Steve.' John had yelled. 'I can't do it on my own. You have to do it for me, Steve.'

Sometimes Steve wished Shepard hadn't survived at all.

He loved Shepard with every fiber of his life, and that was why he wished he'd died on the Crucible. That wasn't what he'd asked for at first, though. The pilot cursed every night he stayed up praying for Shepard to come back to him safely. He came back, but not at all safely.

Every day was hell for Shepard, tormented by the workings of his mind, the enemy he couldn't shoot down or reason with. It pained Steve to see him like that, but he never cried. He had to be strong. One of them had to have a level head on their shoulders.

The Alliance gave him honorable discharge and awarded him every medal they could think of- they even named a few after him. It wasn't long before the asari and salarians were holding ceremonies in his honor and the turians offered him an honorary sit in their government. The first new civilization on Rannoch was called Shepherd and every family had a child with his name. The Citadel put them up in a condo on the Presidium for free and the krogan erected statues.

Steve just quit his job.

After the night he had begged for Steve to kill him, he insisted that he see a therapist. And so Steve pulled every contact he could find on the Citadel and started calling. After what must have been weeks of asking and searching, he found a salarian who worked just outside of the embassies and specialized in working with refugees and veterans with post-traumatic stress. Shepard asked not to see him again following the first session.

He reminded him of Mordin.

Shepard asked Steve not to dance while he cooked.

It reminded him of Legion.

Shepard asked Steve not to pray in front of him.

It reminded him of Thane.

Liara had heard by way of Garrus that Shepard wasn't doing well and volunteered herself. The woman dedicated more hours to finding therapy for Shepard than Steve was awake most days.

It wasn't perfect, but Shepard went bi-weekly to see a doctor. Five doctors, actually, but three of them were for mental health and trauma. Steve didn't see changes for months. He had convinced himself that he wouldn't ever see a change in him. Despite this, he made the decision to stay with him; to stay with the shell of a man Shepard once was. To be honest, Steve was starting to feel like a shell of a man. He didn't sleep, he didn't eat, and he was starting to spend most of his days sitting on the couch next to the rocking chair and watching TV. Steve Cortez needed a miracle.

Two months of living together and not talking and Shepard started a conversation. It was mostly crying and gasping for breath while his body was racked with sobs, but Steve would take it. Progress was slow, but that was to be expected. The nightmares started to stop when Shepard started to walk. With the cane, at first, but he slowly started to leave it at home, asking Steve if he wanted to go for a walk to the cafe or around the Presidium with him. Steve always said yes.

They didn't have sex, but they touched more. A gentle, unexpected touch of the hands or a feather-light stroke across the jawline. Steve counted three-hundred-ninety-five days since starting therapy until Shepard let Steve sleep with him. It was just sleeping, but it was progress.

Shepard didn't cuddle up to him. He stayed mostly on his side of the bed, waking up at once a night, sweating and hyperventilating. Steve would get up to comfort him, cradling him against his chest and, for once, he didn't push him away.

If anything can be said of progress when you need it most, it's that it takes time. Years passed before Shepard was even a memory of his former self and they started flirting with the idea of marriage and where their lives would go, the fact that the Reapers were gone for good finally sinking in for Shepard. Their lives would keep going. They'd survived.

Most days Shepard just sat in a rocking chair and stared at a wall, listening to Steve sing, rocking his baby daughter to sleep.

Back and forth and back and forth.

The reason I wrote this was to work on my storytelling ability as opposed to my writing ability. Too often I find myself over thinking that small details and not telling a real story, so I tried this exercise for my own benefit. I hope you enjoyed it.